How You Say It
by Alioseven
Summary: Mycroft faces being the one to act as a safety net for his brother when his mother insists that Sherlock move to London with him. His obstinate behaviour is a pain in the backside and Mycroft is a busy man, he can't always be there to act as an interpreter or barrier for his younger brother, who's methods of communication often leave him unable to make himself heard.
1. Chapter 1

**NOTES: This story is an old WIP that was born out of a Tumblr prompt. It kind of budded into a Mycroft-centric fic which, though I loved, didn't end up going as far as I'd hoped it would as I neglected it terribly. Please be aware that though Sherlock is Deaf in this fic, it's not central to his story so much as shared with Mycroft - more focused on Mycroft living with his brother and how life for Mycroft changes when his mother orders the young Government hopeful to bring his brother with him London.**

**Forgive me my mistakes - I know little about the Deaf community (aside from basic BSL) but am learning and so if there is anything you feel I need to be called up on then feel free to do so. **

**This chapter has been proof-read and mistakes picked out but if you spot one, let me know. If you begin reading this, be aware that it is a slowly-progressing endeavour! **

**Enjoy!**

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It was rare, since leaving University and beginning what he hoped would be a successful Governmental career, that Mycroft ever left London for more than a business trip. He would spend from eight each morning until late each night working and would return home to his London city apartment, albeit a phenomenal one, to do nothing more than collapse into bed. But the lifestyle suited him – important, busy and reclusive – and it had been beneficial to his personal appearance, too. Gone was the podgy frame of his youth to be replaced by the svelte silhouette he now maintained inside pristine, tailored suits. It seemed that for Mycroft, surviving on minimal sleep and strong, black coffee was the key to success and weightlessness. So, with the opportunity to leave being so rare, one would have assumed that Mycroft would have been a little more enthusiastic about returning to his childhood home on the Devon coast for his mother's birthday but, in reality, he was anything but.

He permitted himself three days away from London and packed a small overnight bag for the trip. Rather than using the benefits of a chauffeur driven car that his job offered, he opted to drive himself to Devon, allowing for a little breathing space without the pressure to be terribly proper the entire journey. The sun was bright as he drove with the radio on at a quiet level and the windows down, filling the car with fresh, cool air. Cars passed him in quick succession but he was in no rush; it felt good to have turned off his pager and be able to enjoy the sensation of freedom.

He was fully expecting the house to be bustling, knowing that Sherlock would be home for the summer from University and expecting the family to have descended upon the residence, both of which he knew would be as much a delight as it would be a task. He liked to catch up with his brother having always been exceptionally close to him in their youth, but they were quick to bug one another, picking and biting at each other and, all too quickly, the atmosphere could become bitter and thick. Not to mention, he knew he was in for a dressing down from his nineteen-year-old sibling; he had been neglecting to keep in touch as often as he knew he should and, from past experiences, knew that Sherlock didn't take too kindly for Mycroft not fulfilling his promises (having promised, when moving to London, never to lose touch with his brother) and the guilt and nervous anticipation as to how great Sherlock's temper would be bubbled unwelcomed in his stomach.

Motorways soon gave out to country roads which, even sooner, blended into the impressive Devon coastline. He smiled at the nostalgia that built in his chest, despite loving no longer living in the sleepy county. He was forever a country, this he knew he could never escape, but his heart dwelled in the city of London. His eyes flickered over the familiar landmarks, road signs and shops along the roadsides as he entered Exeter, deliberately taking a longer route just to enjoy the freedom, before turning off for his old stomping ground. The gates and aligning trees of the Holmes estate came in to view before anything else that gave his location away so intensely, and the nostalgia of moments before was replaced with its predeceasing nervousness.

The large, white gates that marked the entrance of the drive were controlled by sensors and swung open with a slight squeak as Mycroft powered the car into the avenue. If he had ever in his life forgotten how pretentious his family were, he was surely reminded at that moment and his eyebrows rose up expectantly as he drove slowly up the newly gravelled driveway, flanked on either side by grassy embankments littered with large fir trees and the odd, scattered Victorian-esque lamp that was habitually turned on at six-pm every evening, even in the summer, to illuminate the pathway should passers-by call in.

Mycroft's mind travelled back to his and Sherlock's younger years when he'd tied a six-year-old Sherlock to the lamp right at the bottom of the drive one Autumnal evening after the younger Holmes had been found with a pair of scissors in one hand and Mycroft's favourite tie in the other. He'd only gone down to release the child from his bonds when the caretaker of the grounds, who lived in a modest bungalow opposite the Holmes estate, had telephoned the house to tell the family that there was a ghastly howl that sounded like a dying fox coming from the bottom of the lane. He smirked to himself at the memory, but as his ears recalled a ghost of the scream that had emanated from Sherlock's lungs, he shuddered.

He was somewhat surprised, as the house came into view, to find no other cars littering the expanse of tarmac that allowed for ten vehicles at least. He drew the car to a halt and stared up at the three storey Victorian mansion. It had never been strange or grand to him, but the house _was_ particularly spectacular. Four rooms were visible on each floor from the front alone and the building encased at least twenty five. Growing up here, he'd never really appreciated just how big the house was, nor its beauty; each room had two sash windows, the large front door was heavy oak with an ornate knocker and the house itself was crafted out of the reddest bricks Mycroft's eyes had ever gazed upon.

He took a deep breath and tapped the steering wheel with both hands before he released himself from the warm car. He removed his suit jacket, revealing the crisp shirt and smart waistcoat beneath, and hooked it over his arm before he reached into the back of the car for his bag. He strode confidently toward the house, basking in the light breeze that took the edge off the summer heat. The heel of his brogues scuffed as he marched toward the front door with his back habitually straight. Extending his arm, he pushed his long, slim finger against the newly acquired electric buzzer and willed himself not to feel so stupidly unsure.

Almost immediately he heard footsteps inside against the tiles that lined the hallway floor and the door was pulled open by a polite and cheerful young woman. "Welcome home, Mycroft," She gave a bright smile and almost curtsied with glee; barely into her thirties, and one of those special people in the world, Mary had worked for the family since Sherlock was five and had become something of a fixture, hanging around even as Sherlock grew up, too precious and loved to give away. "It's fantastic to see you," unprofessionally, she offered Mycroft a hug and, just because it was Mary, Mycroft obliged, dropping his bag to the floor to encase her in his long arms.

"Very good to see you too, Mary," He remained polite though such displays weren't usually customary and much less comfortable for him. He loosened his arms and straightened up, adjusting the jacket over his arm. "Mary, is Sherlock home already?"

"Absolutely," She nodded, "Though his temperament is somewhat less desirable than it has been in the past," her eyes widened before she regained her usual, pretty expression. "He's in the sitting room, or at least he was when I was in there a little while ago."

"Thank you," Mycroft touched her shoulder and walked on from her, straight toward the closed door of the lounge. Bracing himself, trying to be prepared for a telling off, he turned the handle and stepped inside, already slowly becoming acclimatised to being in a house he'd avoided for the past five years.

Walking quietly into the lounge, dropping his possessions onto a chair, Mycroft positioned himself into his brother's line of sight and raised his eyebrows optimistically, but all hope was quashed when the curly-haired nineteen year old turned his face toward him with a dull-eyed smile that lacked anything in the way of enthusiasm or fraternal warmth. He watched his brother's long, slim fingers as he wrapped the cover of the book he was reading inside to mark his page and set it down on the low coffee table that stretched the length of the sofa in the imposing, baroque sitting room. The house was quiet but for the sounds of the rattling china further down the hall as the staff set up for dinner later that evening. Mycroft felt a bit out of place; after half a decade he had forgotten what an oppressive, heavy-handed atmosphere the old house carried.

University, and then his job, had kept Mycroft busy and visits home were the least of his worries. He and Sherlock had conversed by letter mostly; Sherlock would send a spidery essay on a monthly basis whereas Mycroft tried to ensure a perfectly penned letter arrived for Sherlock weekly. But in recent weeks, he had neglected his penmanship, and he could see the resentment in the younger Holmes' eyes. Seven years Mycroft's junior, Sherlock wasn't backwards in coming forwards to express his annoyance with his brother. Today, it seemed, he was doing this by feigning any understanding of life at all.

Catching Sherlock's eye again, Mycroft's hands rose up to his chest in the thick silence of the room and began moving in sharp yet fluid movements, sweeping in a wild dance whilst his face echoed something by way of apology. Sherlock's feline eyes flicked wildly as his attention focused on Mycroft but the older man failed to see anything softening in his expression. Circling his right hand in a closed fist in the centre of his chest, Mycroft gave Sherlock a truly apologetic crook of the eyebrows and looked upon him with wide eyes.

Blinking a couple of times with his habitually blank expression, Sherlock gestured rudely with his pianist fingers and pushed himself up from the sofa, stalking from the room on long, spidery legs, into the hallway, taking the stairs in loud footsteps. Mycroft winced, standing in the centre of the lounge alone, as Sherlock's bedroom door banged closed on the top landing. He knew what this was about, that it was his own doing and that Sherlock had every right to be angry with him, but he wished that he wasn't. The teen had abandonment issues – being repeatedly abandoned by their father would cause such pain - and in failing to keep up communication, Mycroft knew he had only added to his brother's fears of being forgotten.

For a moment, Mycroft considered going after the stroppy teen but quickly decided against it; guests would be arriving sooner than he could deal with and he hadn't even seen his mother yet, having come straight to find Sherlock on his arrival at the house. Leaving the sitting room, he adjusted his waistcoat as he left and walked with noisy shoes down the darkened hallway toward the kitchen where he could lead out into the back-garden, knowing it would be here he would find his mother, the birthday girl. Various members of the kitchen staff addressed him fondly as he passed through with a polite smile on his face but was determined to push through quickly; plenty of the evening would be taken up by being pleasant to people, he wasn't willing to start early.

He brushed his palms down the front of his waistcoat nervously, pleased with how much weight he'd lost recently, and stepped out of the doors into the garden. The summer sun was high, the green grass beyond the path bordered by beds of exquisite flowers and the weeping willow at the far end of the garden, that drooped into something of a large pond, was abuzz with butterflies sweeping through its hanging vines. Sure enough, Mycroft spotted his mother on the wrought iron bench that sat midway down the large lawn, a table at her side with a tea-cup and saucer. She was dressed in a lilac skirt and white, silken blouse, finished off with far-too-large sunglasses to keep the sun from causing a migraine.

She rose from her seat as she spotted her eldest son, though Mycroft wasn't entirely sure it was because she was pleased to see him. Still, he held open his arms as they came close together and offered her a kiss on the cheek, holding one hand in his as he hugged her with the other. "Mummy," he said as sickly sweet as he dared. "Happy Birthday," He kissed her opposite cheek.

"Yes dear, thank you." Millicent nodded and held out her hand, inviting Mycroft to join her on the bench. Obliging, he waited politely until she was seated before taking the space beside her. He felt hot inside of his shirt and navy trousers and waistcoat. He was sure it would be obvious on his face, which was prone to turning a crimson shade. "I trust you found the house alright."

And so the digs began. This would go on the entire night, Mycroft knew. Five years of being a grown-up and his mother resented him for it. "Of course, Mummy, I haven't forgotten where I grew up." Mycroft cleared his throat and tried to sound cheerful despite her sickening gaze.

"Well you could have fooled me, child; this is the first time you've stepped foot in the house since you got your precious Parliamentary job." Millicent tutted profoundly and rather irritatingly, shaking her head in a gentle movement to move her glossy grey curls from her forehead and removed her sunglasses, giving her son the full force of her eyes, matching Sherlock's with their almond shape and feline quality, "You boys know nothing of caring and gratitude toward me. You are both self-important, wretched creatures."

Well, at least he wasn't alone in receiving her wrath and detest, he conceded. "Both?" Mycroft repeated, "What has he done now?" his voice was droll, though he doubted it was anything too severe. Another dead fox, perhaps or possibly screaming at Mary and the kitchen staff - that was a favourite way of expressing himself from his youth. Hearing a scream from a boy profoundly Deaf was often more than people could handle.

"He wants to drop out of University." Millicent closed her eyes for what Mycroft presumed was dramatic emphasis as she shook her head. "Not even two full terms and now he wants to leave. He is just like his father; a waste of space who cannot stick at one thing for any amount of time in his life." Mycroft remembered that tone, the tone that ate up his mother's voice, and he hated it. It was one of real sadness, one of true pain, and it rarely appeared because she rarely let it, which made it all the more horrid to hear when it did. Mycroft was sure he'd rather listen to Sherlock's screaming than hear his mother talk in this way.

"Maybe I could talk to him?" Mycroft supposed, crossing his right knee over his left. His mother hated when he sat like that, told him he looked 'positively homosexual' and that it wasn't proper for him to behave that way. Mycroft was certain his mother knew, by now, that he was, in fact, homosexual and that she chose to ignore and yet the look in her eyes still made him behave as he knew she wanted him to. He straightened his back and uncrossed his legs from the mere glance she gave.

"He has never taken any of your advice before now, Mycroft, why would he suddenly start?" Millicent gave him a look of venom and sarcasm.

That wasn't strictly true; Mycroft and Sherlock though they fought terribly, were first and foremost brothers who respected the others opinion. Sometimes it took a while, but they always accepted the word of the other with gratitude. Sherlock, in particular, found Mycroft's presence – when not angry at him – to be a comforting one. Mycroft had always been the interpreter, the one to back Sherlock up, the one to catch him in a fall and he knew that if anyone could get through to him, it would be him, despite his mother's harsh words. "I'm sure trying would do no harm, at least, Mummy?" Mycroft suggested and watched her rise to her feet, then quickly echoed her movements. He followed her politely up the path, back toward the kitchen.

She stopped and Mycroft studied her. She seemed a broken shadow of the woman he remembered. Her hair greyer, her form smaller, her back hunching and her eyes more tired. Sherlock could be hard work; Mycroft was sure that his deafness often funded his obstinate behaviour. His brother found communication difficult and, in his silent world, would entertain himself in different ways, leading him into trouble. He knew their mother had been temperamental as he grew up and he didn't expect her to have changed in his absence. "What is it?" Mycroft asked her, shocking himself with just how much he sounded like his father. It shocked his mother too, he could see it in her eyes, and she looked up at him with a sadness veiling them. "Mother, what?" he reached out two hands and touched her shoulders.

"I cannot handle him another day, after tonight I want you to bring him with you into London, have him stay with you. He's troublesome, he's aggravating, he's rude, he's obstinate, he's…he's…"she drew down her shoulders and took a deep breath. "No arguments, no back talk." She looked at Mycroft with a serious, stern face again, her sadness swallowed down to become Millicent Holmes, mistress of disguise and etiquette once again. "You are to bring him back with you when you leave; if he goes back to University that is fantastic, if not you find him work and you take care of him. He needs you."

Mycroft lost himself in her yo-yo manner, the hot and cold of her unpredictable temperament, and was stunned to silence, finding he nodded agreeably despite the idea of living with Sherlock again being something that knotted his stomach. He followed her unwillingly as she turned into the house; his face, he was sure, echoed how royally pissed off he was at her suggestion.


	2. Chapter 2

The evening crept in more speedily than Mycroft would have liked and he knew that people would be arriving any minute yet couldn't stand the thought of it. Standing in his childhood bedroom, half dressed for dinner, he glanced around trying to think up an excuse for missing Millicent's birthday soiree, which he knew would end in disaster anyway, because didn't it always? Glancing at his reflection in the mirror, he wondered if he could wish himself sick and suddenly jumped out of his skin as Sherlock's reflection merged with his own when the lanky, brooding man-child stepped into his bedroom on silent feet. Mycroft turned to him and offered a closed-lipped smile. His right hand raised, index finger pointed, he waved it side to side as his lips mimed "What?" and his face set in a questioning glance.

Sherlock shrugged his shoulders and leaned back against the wall, his hands crushed back by the weight of his bum. Watching him for a minute, Mycroft then turned back to the mirror and fastened his tie, his eyes flicking back up to focus on Sherlock's reflection occasionally as he tried to read his expressions. He reached down, picking up his waistcoat, and pulled it on over his crisp, white shirt, constantly scrutinised by his brother's gaze.

Mycroft had always thought that Sherlock's eyes were both fearsome and uniquely alluring. Not that he would let that slip to Sherlock of course. Much more content to call the younger Holmes 'odd looking', the fact that he truly did like Sherlock's eyes never was passed on to him. Finally, Sherlock clicked his fingers and Mycroft looked up to meet his eyes. With the painful knowledge that he was about to be hit with the full force of Sherlock's temper, he blinked a couple of times and locked his eyes to his brother.

Sherlock's face grappled with his annoyance and Mycroft found himself almost wincing, his brother's hands moving quickly and his lips contorting. He took in every sign, every word of his brother's anger toward him before holding up his hands to cut him down. Sherlock was pissed off; about University, about their mother, about their father who was rarely on the scene, about Mycroft growing up and moving out, about Mycroft getting a life that he knew he'd never get. Mycroft knew his brother had never been one to use his deafness as a playing card – bar their father, nobody had treated Sherlock any differently to how they treated Mycroft, not really – but he knew that every so often, it presented mountains that Sherlock just deemed far too high to climb.

Mycroft's hands moved fluidly as he begged for Sherlock to calm himself down, to not be so hasty about leaving University and to please watch his language. Sherlock's lips pouted at the slight scolding, his hands dancing with agitation as he tried to make Mycroft understand it from his point of view, which they both knew was impossible. Living with a Deaf family member was a completely different thing to being Deaf yourself; there was so much Mycroft knew he'd never understand, but he empathised with everything.

A light knock on the bedroom door halted Mycroft as he began another long-winded apology. "Come in," he addressed, signing to Sherlock that there was somebody at the door before dropping his hands.

Stepping in, Annie – their long-term maid – gave Sherlock a sweet smile before looking to Mycroft with something of a less hopeful expression. "Mr Holmes," she began politely, "I thought you might want to know that your father is here."

Mycroft's face fell in disgust and confusion and he knew Sherlock was reading him scrupulously. He straightened his brow and nodded at Annie, "Thank you," he signed as he spoke and waited for her to leave before turning to Sherlock. "Dad's here," his voice carried as his hands moved.

He watched Sherlock's face crumble and was certain his expression had matched it previously. Neither of the boys wanted this; at twenty-six and nineteen years old, life without their father had been normal since Mycroft was ten and Sherlock just three. He'd flit in and out, a Christmas here and a birthday there, but he'd never been permanent, never been a stable fixture. Sherlock, though the word had never been said to Mycroft, hated his father and Mycroft couldn't blame him. Born Deaf, their father had never been able to deal with Sherlock's differences against Mycroft and the younger boy had always known it. Mycroft had a sickening dislike for the man but he wouldn't admit to hate; he wasn't sure that he could.

He watched pink flush to Sherlock's cheeks and his hands began their furious motions again, almost moving too fast for even Mycroft to keep up. With both his voice and his hands, Mycroft reined Sherlock in, trying to cool his obvious temper. "You have to do this; it's Mother's birthday, Sherlock. You cannot cause a racket tonight with so many people here." His hands were somewhat slower than Sherlock's, his signing, not as readily used over the past couple of years, had become sluggish in comparison to Sherlock. "You cannot make a scene, not tonight."

He reached forwards and cupped the teenager's face. Their eyes locked and Sherlock found himself agreeable to Mycroft's terms, angrily shaking himself from the hands before storming from the room. Mycroft felt the boom of the slamming door – Sherlock's only way of expressing his anger noisily in many situations – and winced when it shook into its cradle. Tonight was going to be an awful one, he conceded; _truly awful_.

He turned back to his reflection and tried to push up the frown from his brows but found it nigh on impossible. Instead, he concentrated on relaxing his shoulders and leaned down to pick up his suit jacket from the bed. He checked his tie was straight before slipping his arms into his jacket and walked across toward the door, his shoes noisy against the varnished floorboards. He pulled the bedroom door closed behind him, leaving on the light for returning later that evening, and walked across the top landing. Sherlock's bedroom was directly opposite and the door was open which meant he was in there – Sherlock was nearly maniacal about having the door tightly closed whenever he wasn't around; anything to stop prying people from entering in his absence.

Mycroft wasn't really surprised to find Sherlock splayed out on his tummy, shoes on the floor and black-socked feet dangling over the end of the bed whilst his head lay across his folded arms, eyes pinned on his big brother. Adopting the fashion he'd always used for Sherlock, Mycroft crouched as far as his trousers would allow, leaning down with bent knees, his weight on his toes, and locked eyes on Sherlock. His right hand came up; thumb pulled in alongside his index finger, and dragged his four fingers in a downward motion from his chin, "Please," his eyes begged. Sherlock replied with a simple shake of the head and slow blink of his watery blue eyes.

Mycroft pushed himself back up again, hands on Sherlock's mattress for stability, and felt his knees clicking as though he were twenty years older. He reached out, scrubbing his hand through Sherlock's messy curls and paused a moment before turning to walk away. He stopped, two steps from the door, as the bed creaked. Looking over his shoulder, he saw Sherlock sitting up, pushing his feet back into his polished shoes. His white shirt was open on the top two buttons and his suit jacket was unbuttoned, but he looked presentable. Mycroft repeated the same motion as before, his lips moulded this time into a silent thank you and Sherlock shrugged his shoulders, waiting for his brother to step into the hallway so he could follow behind him, closing his bedroom door tightly.

Mycroft sighed with relief, not only would he not be facing his father alone after four years of no contact, but he wouldn't have to explain to his mother that Sherlock was in a bad temper because of his father and refused to come down to dinner; the arguments and passing comments from the guests it would cause didn't bear thinking about.

They descended the stairs together, Sherlock one step behind his brother, and landed into the hallway, their shoes noisy against the tiles, just as the front door was dragged open by Annie, revealing their mother's sister, Bernice, and her two sons, Ray and Charlie. Her husband, as ever, wasn't present.

"My-croft," Bernice flung herself at her nephew and Mycroft could do nothing but capture her in the undignified hug she was expecting. He hated her, always had, particularly because she pronounced his name as though it were a double barrel and not a singular.

"Good evening, Bernice," he greeted her, politely kissing her cheek as she unglued herself from his body only to assault her younger nephew in the same way. As had been the form for the past seventeen-or-eighteen years, Mycroft readied himself for the unnecessary loudness their bolshie aunt added to her voice as she captured Sherlock.

"Sherlock," She bellowed, over-pronouncing her words with an unnaturally rounded mouth, "How…are…you?" she asked, holding him tightly in her arms but leaning back so he was watching her face. Sherlock's brow twitched in an odd crease and he simply and nervously edged forwards, kissing her cheek, before attempting to extract himself from her arms. Mycroft watched his pained expression and thanked his lucky stars it wasn't him.

"Mother, let him go, you're making him nervous." Ray tutted at his mother with an embarrassed flush to his fat cheeks; two years younger than Mycroft, Ray was the perfect embodiment of what Mycroft would be if he didn't adhere to his diet – fat, repugnant and sweaty. He had no intention of ever getting like that. Charlie on the other hand was whippet thin, much like Sherlock, but with a head of gingery curls and deep, Celtic-green eyes. The quieter of the two and the younger, he offered only a nod and smile by way of hello as Bernice walked away with Ray pottering beside her.

"Evening, Charlie." Mycroft reached out to shake his hand respectfully and, checking Sherlock was in his wake, walked with the young man toward the dining room. "How's Oxford treating you?" He'd always gotten on well with Charlie; he was three years older than Sherlock and, Mycroft always wondered, was what he'd have expected Sherlock to be like in vocal manner.

"Oh, fine, fine," Charlie spoke with a refined accent and eloquent tongue, "The doctorate itself is easy, it's the patients during rotations I find difficult. I want to be a chemist, not a bloody GP." He chuckled. Mycroft nodded, digging his hand into his suit jacket nervously as Charlie led into the dining room without much more conversation.

He was unsure now whether he had the ability to walk in and face his father, in front of so many people, too. Sherlock was staring at him as though he were crazy, perched precariously outside of the door, daring himself to enter. Sherlock's hands flew up in a disgruntled moan by way of hurrying his brother along, to not be hypocritical, that if he had to go in there then Mycroft did too. Mycroft rolled his eyes in response, his hands moving equally speedily to grumble back at his younger counterpart. Turning his back on the door, the brothers began sniping at one another in a succession of quick gestures and obscene facial expressions. Sherlock's feet kicked noisily against the floor, his hands slapping together, lips popping.

"Oh, boys, you are not having an argument, are you? Do grow up. You are not children anymore."

The demeaning voice of their mother landed in the doorway and Mycroft watched Sherlock's expression change before he looked over his shoulder at her. "No, Mummy, not an argument. A discussion," He smiled, "Happy Birthday again, Mummy. All the cars on the driveway tell me you have quite a turn out for dinner?" Mycroft continued to sign naturally, though a little slower as he spoke, to keep Sherlock in the conversation like he always did.

"Did you suspect that there would be nobody attending? Do you think me that wicked?" Millicent held a glass of champagne in her hand and Mycroft eyed it wondering how many she'd had. "Dinner is in thirty minutes, I expect both of you to be in the dining room in thirty seconds, talking to your family and mingling with the guests. You will not make out that this entire family is a failure, you will not ruin my night; do I make myself clear?" She glared at her boys and Mycroft swallowed audibly as his hands came to a stop.

Sherlock nodded tersely, though his expression was dead and he marched past his mother with no pleasantries. Mycroft frowned, watching his Mother's eyes throw venomous daggers at her lanky, teenage son as he stepped into the bustling dining room but contrived not to bring up the argument now. He straightened his suit and followed in Sherlock's footsteps, letting his mother stew in her own, pent-up anguish in the hallway. The room was awash with people and yet Mycroft's eyes landed first upon his father; in the corner, drink in hand, the man himself had the gall to nod a hello in Mycroft's direction and he felt his shoulders tense.

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**The chapter has been proof-read (that's pretty much all I'm doing as I'm posting it, as mention in the first chapter notes - this is an old story that I'm trying to find something to do with) but if there are any mistakes feel free to pull me up on it. My grammar is awful!**

**Thank you for reading and being patient.**


	3. Chapter 3

**Thank you for your patience with this and your reviews. Very, very much appreciated.**

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Mycroft's eyes danced between his brother, who settled into the corner away from people with their cousin, Imelda, who's hands were slow and unsure as she tried her hardest, in the most respectful of ways, to have a conversation with him, and his father who was standing tall and proud beside Bernice and deep in conversation. Malcolm Holmes played the intelligent, charming man around guests and would flake and shout and hit out when they were gone; Mycroft knew this and he intended on not leaving his mother – though more importantly, his brother – alone in his presence. But God, the years had aged him.

Mycroft had always seen his father as the bigger man, but had never respected him - respect worked both ways; that was Mycroft's ideology. His father had never shown him respect, or at least not since Sherlock's birth, and therefore he found it difficult to offer it up readily. How could he? His father had repeatedly beat Sherlock for his 'ignorance'. Often, Mycroft had witnessed his father dragging Sherlock by the arm for not answering him when he called. He'd heard him telling their mother one night that Sherlock was just stupid, that he was ignorant and rude and it was to be beaten out of him. He hadn't heard his mother disagree, but it wasn't long after that that their father had left their lives for the second time.

Looking at him now, Mycroft failed to see him as anything but an aged man, entering his sixties, who abused alcohol and smoked like a chimney. He saw him as slimy and vindictive and he knew that he would make him pay for the childhood he'd forced upon Sherlock at the first opportunity that arose. He saw himself as somewhat more lucky; being ten when Malcolm had left, he was already well on his way to becoming who he was now. He'd always been independent but Sherlock had not.

Mycroft excused himself from the rabble of people without his mother seemingly even feeling his lack of presence. Armed with a tumbler, he freed himself of his suit jacket as he headed into the lounge down the vast, darkened hallway and over to the press; inside the large, oak unit was glasses of Galway crystal, their grandfather's war medals, and family photographs and, tucked right at the back of the bottom, left-hand cupboard, were two bottles of twelve year old whiskey. Setting his tumbler onto the counter top that protruded from the unit, holding dozens of silver photo frames, he reached in for one of the bottles and straightened his back, holding it proudly between his fingers. He poured himself what would considerably more than a double and left the bottle out. He raised the glass to his lips and savoured the burning as the treacle-coloured liquid slipped down his gullet.

His eyes watered but it was a good feeling.

Keeping the glass in his right hand he reached out with his left and picked up one of the frames from the top of the press. The silver was polished well and the glass inside dusted to sparkle. The photograph itself had seen better days but it was a nice memory. The picture showed a beautiful woman in her forties with her hand clasped inside that of a toddler – Sherlock. His hair was light and curly and his eyes danced with a sparkle in the black-and-white image as he was made to laugh. Mycroft recognised himself beside Sherlock, sharing the joke whilst the old family dog, Leighton, sat at their feet obediently. Surrounding them was the lawn just outside the front of the house and it was clearly a sunny day. Mycroft remembered it well – it had been the best summer of their lives.

The picture had been taken on his father's camera and there was another picture similar, though he wasn't sure where it was now, that had been taken on a timer with Malcolm also present in the frame. It was strange to look at and think, just two weeks later, their father was no longer living in the house.

He placed the frame back into its rightful place and graced his eyes over the other photographs as he sipped his whiskey. So much had changed in the past nineteen, almost twenty, years. He'd gone from being an only child to being a big brother, to being the big brother of a child born deaf, to being the big brother, the protector, the fighter and the guardian of a brother who's communication was not only different from everybody he'd ever known before, but was more eloquent and expressive than anything he'd ever experienced. He experienced abandonment, he experienced the pain of realising he, too, was somewhat different to everybody he knew. He watched his father hit his brother, he watched his father force his mother into the bedroom. He grew up quickly because he had to and now he was bitter about it.

He had known from a young age that he was homosexual but he hadn't understood it properly until his second year in Harrow. Only then had he truly realised that he wasn't a bit like his best friend, Marcus, or his cousins. He didn't want to get married, have children and be the boss of the house; what Mycroft wanted was to hold hands with a boy, to kiss a boy, to lay with a boy and be happy in that. He wanted to rule the country and do it with a man at his side, not a woman. Almost everybody knew, he was aware of that, but it was only his brother – the one deemed stupid and ignorant simply because he could not hear – that ever acknowledged it as being part of who and what Mycroft was. In everybody else's eyes, once they all knew the truth about Sherlock and Mycroft, the boys were ridiculous; they were seen as strange and obscure when, in reality, they were emotional, broken-down young men who'd been raised in a house that lacked love but were gifted with the ability to speak a language that was abundant with it.

He swirled his glass around in his hand and wondered if he should return to the party, but he couldn't quite bring up a precise reason why he should. Nobody had come looking for him, so nobody was missing him, then why go back? He relaxed down into the sofa and placed his glass on the table, reaching forwards and picking up the book Sherlock had left behind him earlier that day. **The Science of Body Language**; it made him smile to think Sherlock needed to be reading such nonsense – the teen was able to read people immediately by a simple twitch of their eyebrow, by the way they wore their hair. It had amazed Mycroft since Sherlock was ten just how gifted he was in so many areas and it had worried him to think that just because his language was formed in a different way, he'd never be given the opportunity to show people just how brilliant he was.

He left the book back onto the table and picked up his glass, swallowing down what remained of his whiskey and gave a sigh as the liquid burned down his throat again, the strong smell of the alcohol filling his nose and making his eyes water. He left the glass behind him and strolled out of the lounge, closing the door tightly behind him. He felt a little bad for having left his brother to the crowds of people but at the same time, he did not. Sherlock needed this, the interactions of other people, and he knew that there were plenty of people in that room who could sign, if only a little. He picked up his suit jacket from the banister, where he'd hung it before entering the lounge, and fixed it on tidily before bracing himself. A deep breath in and he walked back to the dining room and the onslaught of people and their horrid questions about whether he was yet married or had a girl or - those who cared and knew - a guy.

He helped himself to a glass of champagne as he stepped inside and immediately he was collared. "Mycroft," a hand clapped down onto Mycroft's back and he turned, his eyes falling upon a family friend named Derek. Derek was of relatively new money and had been a great friend of his mother's for some time; there had been times in his teens when he wondered if his mother and Derek were, in fact, more than friends, though nothing had ever come of it, if such was the case.

"Derek, good to see you," he shook hands firmly with him. "How's the firm?" He asked politely, his back now to his father but he was sure his eyes were on him; he could feel the lasers on his neck.

"Strength to strength," Derek replied without a hit of modesty. "Half-way through the year and we're making at least double the turnover of last year in total." Pride spilled out of his cigarette-stained teeth. "And you – a man of Government. I'm not sure I like the new tax laws, I must say."

"It's a party, Derek," Mycroft gave a one-sided smile, "Let's not talk shop."

Derek smiled obligingly before running on with a story about his third wife, Claire, who was pregnant with their second child who would actually be Derek's sixth. Mycroft nodded politely, smiling where applicable and even offered a forced laugh as Derek burst into belly laughs. He was sure the disinterest must have slipped through his mask but Derek didn't pick it up, not once. He rattled on, a cigar between his teeth, only drawn away occasionally, in a wretched manner that made Mycroft momentarily proud of how refined he was. He'd have hated to be Derek – a bulbous man with sweat on his forehead and wives and children in more abundance than footwear, capped off with a vulgar laugh and gutter-bound sense of humour.

Excusing himself, joking that somebody had to play host, he walked away from Derek just as Millicent announced loudly that dinner would be served and that everybody should take their assigned seats. Mycroft let his eyes close a minute and prayed that he was flanked by Sherlock and Charlie, or at least anyone who wasn't his father or mother. Glancing, he caught Sherlock's waving hand, calling him over. His glass held firmly by the stem between his fingers, Mycroft allowed girls in their finery and men in tuxedos to pass him politely and shuffled slowly down the long dining room to his brother at the far end; he couldn't help but think that these dinner parties of his mother's belonged in the 1920s.

His eyebrows rose as he got closer to Sherlock and he drank in the look of displeasure on his brother's face. The head of the table was occupied, of course, by Millicent. To her left sat Bernice and her sons whilst, to her right, Sherlock, Malcolm and Mycroft had been placed. Sherlock's agitated signing drew in the attention of people who were less accustomed to Millicent's sons, their faces confused, their eyes pasted to the shapes formed by the dance of hands. Setting his glass on the table, Mycroft did his best to pacify Sherlock's bad humour.

Sherlock's right hand clawed, his palm upwards, and he scrapped his hand against his chest several times in insistence that he was going to complain about the seating arrangement. Mycroft, although understanding his frustration and anxiety completely, knew he had to be firm in the face of guests. His right hand shot up with a pointed index finger, moving forwards in a sharp movement before his hand opened out flat and brushed down his body – the sign for 'behave'. Mycroft watched Sherlock's jaw stiffen as he plunged himself into the empty seat closest to their mother. Mycroft fought hard with the urge to swap the place settings and seat himself beside Sherlock. Leaving a chair between them for their father, Mycroft sat down and glanced at Sherlock who looked as though he may cry at any moment.

He snaked his hand across the table and drummed his fingers for Sherlock's attention. Cat eyes met his and he smiled. His fist circled on his chest gently as though he had set this up himself; such was always the way for Mycroft – apologising to Sherlock for everyone else's mistakes. Sherlock's hands motioned fluidly at his brother, his face grappling with emotional highs and lows as he told Mycroft in no uncertain terms that if their father sat between them he would be shunned the entire night. Mycroft knew this was true, their father wouldn't sign with Sherlock nor would he translate his conversations or even give Sherlock a clear, well-spoken, face-to-face base for which he might be able to lip-read slightly; he was just that narrow-minded.

Mycroft repeated his apology and Sherlock shrugged; what use was sorry?

The seats filled around them, though the space between Sherlock and Mycroft remained unoccupied until moments before the kitchen staff began entering. At this point, Malcolm sauntered into the room and, Mycroft was sure, copped a sly smirk as he walked the length of the dining room and placed himself wordlessly between his sons. Four years and he was yet to even speak to his boys. Mycroft felt his anger bubble in his stomach and his cheeks felt hotter. He called upon his work ethic and did his utmost to maintain an outwardly calm demeanour. Inwardly, of course, he was plotting many forms of murder.


	4. Chapter 4

Mycroft poked his fork at the meal before him and wondered where in the world his love of food had gone. Life in London town had changed him a lot, given him less time to eat and more strong coffee, dropping his waistline down to something more slender but changing his eating habits to such an extent that being handed a hearty meal was his worst nightmare. The meat, vegetables and sweet-smelling aroma was no longer his pull to the family home but another reason to avoid it. He stole a glance behind his father's dark head at Sherlock, watching him flicking his eyes wildly between his mother and Aunt Bernice, trying to keep up some semblance of the situation and failing miserably. Mycroft hadn't imagined his mother would be so cruel as to arrange the table in such a manner and yet, deep inside, he wasn't entirely surprised either.

His food virtually untouched, he let his fork and knife rest against the side of the plate, closed together politely, and picked up his glass of water. To his right, Derek nudged his elbow against him and Mycroft turned, offering his attention.

"I remember you always loved your food," he remarked, eyeballing the almost full plate, his own all but licked clean. "Are you sick or something?"

Mycroft shrugged his shoulders, "It's been a long day, I just don't think I have the appetite tonight," he remarked politely.

"And your brother is the same?" Derek questioned further, "Sorry," he apologised, "Don't know how to, you know…" he waved his hands strangely, "…y'know…to talk to him, to ask him..." His hands dancing awkwardly again.

"Sign," Mycroft corrected, still he gave a nod and answered his question. "No, he's never been a big eater; it's how he stays looking like a twig." He remarked with a smirk in Derek's direction, regretting it when Derek nudged his elbow to his and laughed a horrible, phlegmy laugh. He managed to hide his disgust well as he lifted his water to his lips and cast his eyes on anyone else around the table.

"Mycroft," Bernice called his attention across the table and, placing down his glass, he offered her a dull smile that was anything but sincere but sufficed. "Do I take it that you don't intend on moving back to Devon; are you planning on setting up permanent residence in London?"

Instinctively, Mycroft signed as he spoke, finally giving Sherlock the ability to grasp some semblance of conversation in the evening. "It's much more practical. My work is in London, it wouldn't do to be driving backward and forward every day. Besides," he added with a shrug, his hands unfaltering, "I rather like London."

"What is it that's keeping you there?" Bernice pressed with a grin, "A young lady perhaps," her eyebrows rose and Millicent all but vomited her food. Sherlock's flicking eyes caught Malcolm's attention and Mycroft had to attempt not to smile.

"No, no young lady, Bernice." He replied with a sophisticated smile. "I wouldn't assume the courtship of a young woman is really my area."

"Oh," Bernice's eyes fluttered; a flush blotted her cheeks. "Just your work, then," she nodded. It was a finishing statement, an invitation to close down that line of questioning, and quickly.

Sherlock gave a snigger and Mycroft looked across to him in time, it seemed, with everybody else at the top end of the table as his hands danced expressively and seemed to hypnotise the guests. Sherlock ensured his brother was well aware that he found London, though more specifically Government, to be filled with obnoxious people who were far too insistent and power-hungry.

Mycroft nodded, thankful of his little brother's sudden input to steer away the conversation without even realising it was needed quite so much as the rest of the party did. "Insistent and power-hungry," Mycroft repeated with a sideways smirk and Sherlock nodded, "Surely I fall under that category, dear brother?" he replied and Bernice gave a rough laugh. "Sherlock insists I am 'power-hungry and insistent'." He explained, "I am insistent and yes, I suppose I am power hungry. My work demands that I am that way but it's not far wrong to say I've always been that way," he threw down the sibling rivalry gauntlet, daring Sherlock to challenge him for some healthy competition.

Sherlock's signing grew ever more expressive; agreeing with Mycroft's self-labelling of being power hungry, he insisted that Mycroft was merciless only in his official pursuits and somewhat less antagonistic, though still a pain in the arse, outside of the working world.

Mycroft's lips twitched into a smile and, despite herself, so did Millicent's. "What was that?" Derek spoke up loudly, tact never his strong point, his eyebrows arched quizzically.

"Sherlock believes me to be ruthless in my work and a pain in the backside outside of it." Mycroft's hands moved and Sherlock's nodded somewhat triumphantly as people around them laughed. "Ruthless, I'll agree with." Mycroft continued and, across the table, Bernice nodded, "I want to be the best I can be - I want this country in the palm of _my_ hand, not somebody else's." he spoke professionally, his hands never once halting their dance, and glanced at the guests politely. "I want to be the one who steps up security, who…stops the social prejudice surrounding differences in the working world. Law says Sherlock can't work in some of the areas I know his brain is capable of mastering, simply because he talks with his hands, not his voice; I say why? Have a hearing person who signs, too, have multiple people learning the language – it's the same as learning French, or German, or anything. They hire people where I work for foreign affairs, for knowing other languages and yet nobody, _nobody_, has the same view of Sign Language."

"Here, here," Charlie's input was not particularly needed, but the support gave Mycroft a boost.

"I agree, totally." Imelda added with a sweet, somewhat shy, tone to her voice. "Sherlock's mind is keen and I think that should be embraced, regardless of whether he speaks with the same language as others or not." She nodded, receiving a small hub of agreement from the guests surrounding her.

"This is all a little…profound for a dinner party," Malcolm's droll tone brought eyes down nervously. He turned to face Mycroft, his back to Sherlock, and dared to look disgusted when Mycroft continued to sign as he spoke, giving Sherlock the entire story. "Power hungry people fall harder, Mycroft. You would want to rearrange your views, maybe learn what's important and stick to that. Chasing goals and government guidelines is ridiculous, almost as ridiculous as the notion that somebody as small and insignificant could possibly alter the laws in place for public safety. I wouldn't want, for example, a policeman aiding a crime who couldn't communicate, or who was a risk to public health." Malcolm dictated rudely.

"He can communicate." Mycroft's left eyebrow arced. "And he is not a risk to the common man's health."

"Not in a way the world understands, he's…different, he's unusual and there is no place for that in some of the career choices you and he dream up. It's useless thinking about it or dreaming about changing the world based on it. He is impulsive and aggressive, ignorant and uncompromising and you enabling him to believe he could be all he could never be, is unfair." Malcolm finished with a frown set in an ugly way across his aged face. The table seemed to silence and Mycroft felt his anger burning.

"And abandoning your sons is not?" Mycroft asked with all semblances of propriety thrown by the wayside as his father's domineering tones grated against him. "I think," Mycroft rose from his seat, dropping his hands to Sherlock's disgust, "You are in no position to lecture me on what is important, and proper, and what is not."

"Mycroft!" Millicent's hand slapped down on the table in disgust and utter embarrassment, and yet Malcolm simply eyed his son with a smug smirk stretched across his lips like he'd won another battle; like a child scoring points against their siblings in the way Sherlock and Mycroft had done in their youth.

"Excuse me," Mycroft addressed the table, "Suddenly, I'm not feeling very well." Signing a quick sorry to Sherlock, Mycroft walked carefully away from the table. He knew all eyes were on him as he pulled open the dining room door and stepped out into the cooler hallway, closing his eyes. He exhaled heavily; not only would that reflect badly on him in his mother's eyes, and those of the guests, but it was also ammo in his father's tank and he kicked himself for his lack of restraint.

What he'd done was show emotion and that, in the Holmes household and their family and friends that made up their social circle in general, was practically unheard of. He'd lost control, he'd been everything but restrained and he'd shown himself up, thus pulling a veil of shame down over his mother on her special night – that was how it would be seen and he knew there would be consequences. Feeling like a disgraced teenager, he took himself up to his childhood bedroom and toyed with the idea of packing and returning to London. Had their father not been there, he probably would have gone immediately, but given his presence and no doubt now piqued temper, he didn't want to leave Sherlock to his hands.

He walked nervously around his room, his shoes loud against the polished floor as he paced. Nothing had changed from his youth; the curtains, the furnishings, the wallpaper was all the same, nothing out of place and nothing different, except for the atmosphere. The bedroom didn't feel like a sanctuary like it had aged fourteen. Instead, it felt like a prison, thick with resentment and guilt, ghosts of arguments and the sounds of tears. It didn't feel safe, or happy, or nostalgic; it felt constricting and angry, serving to remind him just how horrible life had been since Sherlock's arrival.

It would be a lie to say he'd never blamed Sherlock, but he certainly didn't blame him now. His brother was born out of his parent's doing; it wasn't Sherlock's decision. Mycroft had often wondered if the fact that both parents smoked and drank had been the reason why Sherlock was born Deaf but he didn't think it was possible to base anything scientific on it. Many times in their childhood, Mycroft had called Sherlock names, blamed him for the arguments and their father's absence and teased him for his differences; the truth was he didn't mean any of it. If he hadn't had his little brother there to keep him sane throughout their parent's messy divorce and unspeakable rows, he was sure he'd have gone stir crazy. He was damaged, he knew this, but it was Sherlock's presence in the past that had stopped him being damaged even more.

He halted his pacing as the handle screeched and the bedroom door clicked open, followed by two light knocks as it swung open wider. He knew who to expect before sharp blue eyes and raven curls appeared. He gave a dull smile as Sherlock allowed himself fully into his brother's bedroom and pushed the door closed, leaning back against it. Sherlock looked nervous and his right hand circled his chest tentatively before he broke into more fluid signs, apologising for causing the argument, for getting his brother on the wrong side of their father. But Mycroft was quick to stop him.

"No," he shook his head; the words escaped his mouth too as they so often did since he'd become an adult. He'd gotten so used to including hearing people in conversations with his brother that it was now almost as though using his voice and signing moved in one circle whenever Sherlock was close. "You didn't."

Sherlock argued back, not wanting there to be any reason why the brother might not be on the same side whilst Malcolm was around; they needed to stick together. He made it as clear as he could that he hadn't meant his opinions to cause so much tension.

Mycroft had to laugh at that, "Yes you did and you always do. You're opinionated and rude, and the most sarcastic and blunt person I've ever met but…such is your manner, Sherlock. You are who you are and I know this. Your opinions are as important as everyone else's, however they're shared. The problem with our glorious father is he doesn't know his place," he tutted, his angry signing broadcasting to Sherlock just how much the man's presence was getting to him. "You don't need to be sorry, you're a teenager and my younger brother – it's your job to be a royal pain." He let his hands rest on his hips and watched Sherlock's expression but allowed himself to smirk.

Sherlock permitted himself freedom of Mycroft's room and walked across to his bed, flopping down onto it unceremoniously. He picked up his brother's pager, turning it over in his long fingers, and dropped it back to the bed before meeting Mycroft's eyes again. Mycroft could almost see the cogs turning in his annoying brilliant brain. He seemed to hesitate before signing again, asking Mycroft if he'd stay longer than he'd originally intended because he needed the opportunity to talk to him.

Mycroft questioned him immediately, asking why they couldn't talk about it now and what it was that it was so important it warranted him overstaying his trip. Standing up, Sherlock moved across the room, making to leave, but stopped and turned back to his brother. Mycroft's index finger on his right hand straightened out and he moved it side to side, wanting to know what was going through his strange little brother's mind.

Sherlock drew his right hand up; index finger extended and, bringing it forwards, he brushed it against his cheek, ending his hand palm up in front of him – the sign for 'tomorrow'. He gave an unimaginative smile without bearing his teeth and freed himself from Mycroft's room, closing the door tightly behind him. Mycroft felt a nervous flutter in his stomach momentarily; having a feeling there was something going on and not being able to put his finger on it was never a nice sensation.


End file.
